


in captivity

by simplyclockwork



Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Sherlock Fics - Part One [50]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Rewrite, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, First Kiss, Fix It Fic, Johnlock - Freeform, Love Confessions, M/M, Missing Scene, Sherlock in jail, Tumblr Prompt, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:48:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26866162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Missing scene/fix-it forHis Last Vowas prompted by anon on tumblr.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Sherlock Fics - Part One [50]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1528859
Comments: 29
Kudos: 133





	in captivity

**Author's Note:**

> Anon prompt:
> 
> _We know Sherlock was in solitary for after he shot Magnusson. I’d love to see a fic where Mycroft arranges for John to visit Sherlock before the plan has been settled. And they don’t know what will happen to Sherlock and they talk about Sherlock serving a very long time in prison and John realises then that Sherlock loves him. I’d like a hopeful ending at least please and if you can turn it happy all the better. Be nice as a fix it. I’m over 18, though I don’t see much scope for smut!_

The sound of footsteps made Sherlock lift his head from its heavy droop. Curled in the corner of the small holding cell with his legs pulled to his chest, his cheek against the wall, he looked toward the door. He listened to the visitor’s gait, trying to deduce the cadence, the stride length, and the identity before giving up. After all, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. He killed someone in cold blood, in front of multiple witnesses, and there was no taking it back.

As much as Sherlock hated how John chose Mary over him, even after Mary shot Sherlock point-blank in as cold of blood as Sherlock shot Magnussen in, he understood. With Mary came the possibility of a certain kind of life. John needed Sherlock once upon a time, needed the adrenaline rush that came with their partnership. But that was before, and this was now.

Sherlock’s suicide was fake, but John’s new life was anything but, Mary’s lies aside. Despite her past, she could give John something Sherlock never could. A family. A boring house filled with sunlight, the sound of little feet and the warmth of domesticity. That was never Sherlock, never _would be_ Sherlock. A life like that was no better than death for someone like Sherlock, with his brain firing continuously, a runaway train without hope of stopping.

Oh, but he was tired. So bone-deep tired. His time away weighed heavily on him, stripping life and vitality from his body. No matter his impending sentence, still an unknown factor, Sherlock thought it might not be so bad to waste away in a cell. At least then, he wouldn’t have to watch John drift away, as Mrs. Hudson had all but said he would. At least, this way, Sherlock could lose himself in his Mind Palace, where John never left, and Mary was a name they’d never heard before, except in passing strangers.

The owner of the footsteps stopped just shy of the cell door. Sherlock’s thoughts, whirling by in seconds as his brain whipped through his new reality, scattered. A pause, then the door opened, and Mycroft stepped into his view, his face as stiff as the pressed lines of his suit.

“Sherlock,” he said, standing in the doorway. He stood between Sherlock and freedom and didn’t move. Yet, the possibility of escape held very little allure for Sherlock in a world where John chose Mary over him.

“What do you want, Mycroft?” he asked, stretching out his legs and rising to his feet. He moved to the hard cot against the wall and dropped down with a groan, body stiff from sitting on the floor. “Haven’t I suffered enough without having to listen to you when I can’t leave?”

Lips flattening into a stiff line, Mycroft sighed. “Such theatrics,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. He peered at Sherlock from above his fingers, palm pulling the edges of his mouth down before his arm dropped back to his side. “I’m allowing a visitor.”

Sherlock’s head lifted, and his brow furrowed. “What? Why would you do that?” His frown deepened. “Who?”

Hands clasped together before him, Mycroft studied his brother for a long, silent moment. When he spoke again, he didn’t answer any of Sherlock’s questions, merely musing, “You know, when I met John Watson, I thought he might be the making of you.” Fingers tapping along the heel of his hand, Mycroft tilted his head. “I’m not surprised to have been right, but I never thought he’d make you a murderer.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t respond at first. He stared at his knees with his jaw clenched until the words rose and burned in his mouth, spilling out in a sharp growl, “I did what I _had to,_ Mycroft.” He tilted his head and glared at his brother from the corner of his eyes. “And I’d do it again.”

To his surprise, a small, pleased smile crept over Mycroft’s thin lips. “I know, Sherlock,” he replied, rocking back on his heels. “I just needed to hear you admit it.” Stepping forward, he tapped a finger to Sherlock’s bent brow. “Tell him how you feel.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked back to the open door.

Confused, Sherlock rose to his feet, taking a step forward. “Wait, what are you talking about?” he demanded, glaring at Mycroft’s back when his brother paused in the doorway. “Tell who?”

Turning his head to the side, Mycroft sighed. “For once in your life, Sherlock. Listen to your brother.” He walked through the door without another word. Sherlock froze, waiting for the door to close. When it didn’t, he took another hesitant step forward. Was this Mycroft’s plan? To let him escape? How did he expect Sherlock to succeed? The cell was underground, beneath a secure government facility. He had little to no hope of reaching even the next floor.

Rooted in place, he sucked in a breath when someone new appeared in the doorway. They paused before walking inside, and the door swung shut with a loud metal screech.

Blinking, reeling back on the balls of his feet, Sherlock wet his dry lips and breathed, “John?”

John stopped a few feet away. He pushed his feet together, stiff-backed, and his shoulders straight. His military history bled into every inch of his stance. Looking at him, Sherlock grimaced. Here was John, hiding his emotions, every inch the soldier, stern in the face of something he didn’t want to deal with or acknowledge. Sherlock wondered what his brother hoped to achieve with this little visit. If anything, it would make Sherlock’s last memory of John a point of pain, but maybe, he mused, that was the point. A deeper level of suffering than any lifetime of captivity could promise.

“Sherlock.” John’s voice broke into his thoughts, and he looked up as John moved closer. His eyes flickered with something fleeting, and his brow creased. “Sherlock, you…” John shook his head. “Mary, she… and you…” He appeared to fumble for the words, finally wheezing, “She _shot_ you, and you _killed_ for her.” Staring at Sherlock with an incredulous expression, John sighed, spreading his hands in a helpless, supplicating gesture. “I just, I don’t… _why,_ Sherlock? Why would you do that for her?”

Closing his eyes, Sherlock breathed out a soft, stunned laugh. _How could John get it so wrong?_ So wrong for _so long._ Sherlock felt tired down to his core.

“As ever, John,” he began softly, his voice blurred by exhaustion, eyes shut to block out the piercing sight of John’s anguished face. “You see, but you do not observe.”

John’s voice sounded small when he replied, “I don’t understand, Sherlock. I…” A pause, punctuated by a slow intake of breath and a sharp exhale. “Help me understand why you’d do that. Why you would _kill_ for someone who shot you.”

Sudden anger surging through him, Sherlock’s eyes flashed open. “Don’t you mean someone you forgave? I didn’t do it for _her,”_ he snapped, the words hissing out through his clenched teeth. “I did it for _you,_ John.” The fury drained away as quickly as it came, and he slumped, grinding his knuckles against his forehead, sagging with defeat. “I did it for you. Everything. All for you.” Eyes closing again, he shook his head with helpless disappointment. “None of it was ever for her.”

A grim silence met his confession, and Sherlock stood stiffly with his hands pressed flat to his sides. He didn’t open his eyes. If he did, John’s expression might destroy him. Whatever he might see there, be it acceptance, shock, or condemnation, his wearied soul had no hope of weathering it.

Just as he began to wonder if John had somehow left without his hearing, John spoke.

“You did it for me.” It wasn’t a question, and Sherlock’s eyes opened slowly in surprise. John’s expression was a blend of emotions, making it impossible to separate one from the other. It was a swirling miasma of potential sentiments, and Sherlock watched him warily as John went on in a flat, empty voice, “You killed a man. For me.” John’s eyebrows drew together, the corners of his mouth turning downward. “For me?” he repeated, this time in a question. Nevermind that John once killed a man to save Sherlock, John seemed dumbfounded.

Unable to read John’s mixed expression, Sherlock nodded. His hands, previously still, began to fidget with the edge of his suit jacket. Pulling in a shallow breath, he sighed out, “Yes, for you. Always, for you.”

John’s own exhale was ragged. “God, Sherlock,” he breathed, staring at him with apparent distress, _“why?”_

Hands clenching into fists, Sherlock shook his head. “Didn’t you listen?” At John’s bewildered frown, he shook his head again. “At your wedding, John. I said it then, in my speech. How are you so… it’s _you_ , John. It’s _always you.”_ His eyes flashed, staring at John’s shocked face. “If there is anyone thicker in the skull than you, John Watson, I hope I never, ever meet them.”

The colour drained from John’s face as his lips parted, tongue darting out in a nervous sweep to the corner of his mouth. “You…” his voice faltered, and he cleared his throat, fingers flexing in nervous tremours. “You said… I’m…” With his head angled downward, John stared at the floor for a long moment. His silence made Sherlock jitter, and he breathed out a loud huff.

“For the love of—” he began, only to fall silent as John crossed the small cell in two quick strides. He stopped in front of Sherlock, close enough that Sherlock felt his quickened breath on his neck.

“Say it again,” he demanded, tilting his head up to look Sherlock in the eye. Sherlock stared back, puzzled, and John crowded closer. His hands landed on Sherlock’s waist, obliterating any hope for coherency in Sherlock’s mind. “Say it again,” he repeated in an explicit command. His hands tightened, fingers digging into fabric and against Sherlock’s sides. 

Sherlock’s response was a shaky, “Say what?” as his head swam, his senses filled with John. His smell, his presence, his hands. It all swirled together to drown Sherlock in overwhelming sensations.

“Say what you said at my wedding,” John clarified, moving even closer. His chest pressed into Sherlock’s, making Sherlock’s arms rise automatically, his hands clutching John’s broad shoulders. His breath came faster, eyes locked on John’s face.

“What,” he joked weakly, voice emerging strained, “you weren’t listening the first time?"

“Sherlock,” John growled. The sound of his name spoken in that way, voiced so raggedly, made Sherlock close his eyes again. He dipped into his Mind Palace to find the words, to recall them in exact detail. The scent of floral arrangements filled his nose, eyelids flickering at remembered sunlight and walls painted bright yellow.

“You,” he whispered, forced and breathless, “it’s always you, John Watson. You keep me right.” The last word escaped on a quiet sigh, and Sherlock opened his eyes to catch the rush of emotion on John’s face. “Always,” he repeated, swallowing hard as John’s hands tightened on his waist.

“I can’t believe you made me wait all these years,” John began evenly, his eyes darting over Sherlock’s face, “to finally hear you say that. And, when you did, it was _at my bloody wedding.”_

Sherlock scowled, opening his mouth to protest. To point out that it wasn’t _his_ fault John found someone else, someone he forgave so easily for putting a bullet in Sherlock. Instead of arguing, he gasped and froze beneath the press of John’s lips, stiffened with shock as the hands on his waist rose and tangled in his hair. Using his grip in Sherlock’s curls, John tugged him closer, licking into his mouth with an insistent tongue that Sherlock welcomed with yielding lips and a frantic whimper.

When John released him, the kiss interrupted by the sound of footsteps outside the door, he tilted back with Sherlock’s face gripped between his hands. His eyes were dark and focused beneath his fierce scowl, and Sherlock hung on his every word when he spoke.

“This isn’t over,” John promised, thumbs stroking over the sharp lines of Sherlock’s cheekbones. “Not by a long shot.” Narrowing his eyes, he gripped Sherlock’s face harder. “You hear me, Sherlock? Not. By. A. Long. Shot.”

Still recovering from his shock, Sherlock nodded weakly. “Not over,” he croaked, clearing his throat with difficulty. “Got it. Yes.”

John sighed and tilted forward to press their foreheads together. “Good.” His thumbs smoothed over the same path, rough against Sherlock’s skin. “Good.”


End file.
